


The 'R' Word

by peculiarmars



Series: Autistic Sherlock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bullying, Gen, TW: Abliest Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiarmars/pseuds/peculiarmars
Summary: "Am I a retard, Myc?"





	The 'R' Word

**Author's Note:**

> TW: slurs

Mycroft scanned the crowed, searching for his brothers messy curls. It wasn't often he picked Sherlock up anymore, not since his job in the Government, however, today was an exception.

 

Mycroft idly deduced the parents and carers around him. The mother-of-three to his left was splitting up with her boyfriend soon. The red-headed girl wondering the almost empty playground was looking for her sister, who had once again forgotten to pick her up. The boy with the Simpsons backpack was -

 

Mycroft caught sight of Sherlock and straightened his back, not liking what he saw as his eyes swept over him. Even at a distance Mycroft could see the way his feet dragged, and he kept rubbing at his chest. He was looking around his warily, trying to find Mummy or Daddy or his current Nanny. Mycroft saw the exact moment he realised they weren't here, the slump of his shoulders as he turned on his heel.

 

"Sherlock," He called, waving to him.

 

"Myc?" Sherlock jogged over to him. He automatically slipped his hand into Mycroft's. "Why are you here? Have you been fired?" He said bluntly.

 

Mycroft chuckled. "Not quite yet, little brother. I had a day off and couldn't think of a better way to spend it."

 

"Your job must be really boring if waiting around in playgrounds is fun to you."

 

Mycroft chuckled again. Although Sherlock rarely understood other people's sarcasm, he certainly was not lacking in that area.

 

"Indeed, sitting behind a desk is rather boring. Learn anything interesting today?" He asked as they walked down the worn path, avoiding the woods.

 

"No." He said simply. Sherlock was usually bursting to tell Mycroft something about his day, even if it wasn't about his learning but about the teachers he had figured out were having an affair.

 

Mycroft gave him a quelling look.

 

"You seem very quiet."

 

Sherlock picked up a twig with his free hand and whacked it against the fence as they walked past. He still didn't answer Mycroft's question. Mycroft was thinking of something to bring Sherlock out of his dull mood when Sherlock spoke up.

 

"Am I a retard, Myc?"

 

It was Mycroft's turn not to answer, too to taken aback to properly form a sentence. And then his shock faded and turned into anger. There was no way Sherlock would've thought something like that on his own - so that meant someone in his class had said it to him. _How dare they! How dare they have the_ _audacity to bring his little brother down like that-_

 

"Myc?" Sherlock's worried voice brought him out of his thoughts.

 

"Who said that to you, Sherlock?"

 

Sherlock averted his eyes, whacking the stick violently on the fence.

 

"I don't know." He lied.

 

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock. Who said it?"

 

Sherlock stamped his foot angrily. "One of the year eights." His hands flapped at his sides, agitated.

 

"Name?"

 

"Jackson Perriti."

 

"I will be having words, Sherlock. He has no right to say that to you."

 

Sherlock threw the stick over the fence. "He's right, though. Isn't he? I am a _retard_. I fit the definition. I didn't speak until I was four and a half, I didn't attend a real school until I was nine. I am a _retard_. And a _freak_. And a _spastic!_ " He yelled in a sob. He stamped his foot on the ground, wailing loudly. If he didn't do anything he was going to have a full blown meltdown, Mycroft knew.

 

"Can I touch you, Sherlock?" It was never a good idea to touch him when he was upset unless he said so. Sherlock nodded, lifting up his arms.

 

It wasn't as easy as it used to be, but Mycroft managed to lift Sherlock up. He settled Sherlock on his waist and let the younger boy cry into his shoulder. He winced when he felt teeth biting through his jacket. Sherlock had the tendency to bite when he was upset. Still, better him then Sherlock's own hand.

 

Mycroft vows to himself that Jackson Perriti will never lay eyes on his brother again.


End file.
